Of Loops and Straight Lines
Title: Of Loops and Straight Lines
Author: Asimus
Characters: The Doctor #8/Rose, later to be #9 and #10
Summary: Time is made of wibbly wobbly timey whimey stuff, it doesn't always move in a straight light. For Rose it is a blessing, for the Doctor, a curse.
Disclaimer: Sadly the character's are not mine. In fact I don't think it's even an original concept.
Notes: No spoilers as such, though for Rose it is post Doomsday, and for the Doctor Pre Time War.
Rating: PG-13 for some violence and gore... Also gets a bit grittier now.
Chapter 1 - Of Going Home
Chapter 2 - Of Fighting and Dying
It seemed the tardis wasn’t properly designed for ship to ship warfare, for that matter neither was he. For him, battle should be waged on the field, soldiers on horseback, fighting for God, King and country, and perhaps the women awaiting their return. It should be honest and romantic, with the good guy wearing a white hat and the bad guy dressed in black, an angry scar down his face and an evil glint in his eye. And he (and he couldn’t stress this enough) should merely be observing, never fighting and never ever getting involved.
This war was something different, a breed of its own, this war was wrong, all wrong. This was worlds being wiped out without a second thought, innocents dying unaware of a battle raging below them. For him, he knew not of the right side or the wrong side. There was no black and white, no good or bad. Everything existed in a murky kind of grey, and it froze his centre solid. This was a war with no winners or losers, only death and destruction.
The ceiling perished and came away from supporting beams. The Victorian styled décor shattered leaving behind the natural organic state of his ship, like open weeping wounds. Books scattered, his armchair crushed, artistry knocked him senseless. His head throbbed and blood blurred his vision, and yet, he somehow found energy within him, despite the lead like feeling in his legs, and propelled himself around the console, protecting Rose’s head from more falling debris. This was the end, he knew as half his face caved in with the impact against the wall, jaw hanging slack, broken he was sure. He pushed his beloved to the ground, covering her body with his, a protective shield as another missile shook the hull. This was the end, definitely the end, and his mind reached back for a song by the Doors, lyrics eluding him but the tune escaped his pressed tight lips in a quiet hum. His hearts were slowing, his vision closing in from the edges and there was a burning sensation in his chest. Rose, his Rose, loomed over him, brushing away a sticky strand of curly brown hair, blood visible on her fingers. His blood. He reached for her, tried to explain to her, Time Lords weren’t the same as human beings. But she hushed him with a kiss, smiling her beautiful smile, whispering in his ear that it was ok, she knew everything. Tears drained pink and ran freely down his face. She knew. Of course she knew. Realisation dawned on him. It was him she had longed for. Him who had left her the lonely wanderer, a fallen angel walking the slow path. They would meet again, only next time, would be the first time, and she would not know him. Pain not born of physical injury ached inside. She would not love him as she did now.
Author: Asimus
Characters: The Doctor #8/Rose, later to be #9 and #10
Summary: Time is made of wibbly wobbly timey whimey stuff, it doesn't always move in a straight light. For Rose it is a blessing, for the Doctor, a curse.
Disclaimer: Sadly the character's are not mine. In fact I don't think it's even an original concept.
Notes: No spoilers as such, though for Rose it is post Doomsday, and for the Doctor Pre Time War.
Rating: PG-13 for some violence and gore... Also gets a bit grittier now.
Chapter 1 - Of Going Home
Chapter 2 - Of Fighting and Dying
It seemed the tardis wasn’t properly designed for ship to ship warfare, for that matter neither was he. For him, battle should be waged on the field, soldiers on horseback, fighting for God, King and country, and perhaps the women awaiting their return. It should be honest and romantic, with the good guy wearing a white hat and the bad guy dressed in black, an angry scar down his face and an evil glint in his eye. And he (and he couldn’t stress this enough) should merely be observing, never fighting and never ever getting involved.
This war was something different, a breed of its own, this war was wrong, all wrong. This was worlds being wiped out without a second thought, innocents dying unaware of a battle raging below them. For him, he knew not of the right side or the wrong side. There was no black and white, no good or bad. Everything existed in a murky kind of grey, and it froze his centre solid. This was a war with no winners or losers, only death and destruction.
The ceiling perished and came away from supporting beams. The Victorian styled décor shattered leaving behind the natural organic state of his ship, like open weeping wounds. Books scattered, his armchair crushed, artistry knocked him senseless. His head throbbed and blood blurred his vision, and yet, he somehow found energy within him, despite the lead like feeling in his legs, and propelled himself around the console, protecting Rose’s head from more falling debris. This was the end, he knew as half his face caved in with the impact against the wall, jaw hanging slack, broken he was sure. He pushed his beloved to the ground, covering her body with his, a protective shield as another missile shook the hull. This was the end, definitely the end, and his mind reached back for a song by the Doors, lyrics eluding him but the tune escaped his pressed tight lips in a quiet hum. His hearts were slowing, his vision closing in from the edges and there was a burning sensation in his chest. Rose, his Rose, loomed over him, brushing away a sticky strand of curly brown hair, blood visible on her fingers. His blood. He reached for her, tried to explain to her, Time Lords weren’t the same as human beings. But she hushed him with a kiss, smiling her beautiful smile, whispering in his ear that it was ok, she knew everything. Tears drained pink and ran freely down his face. She knew. Of course she knew. Realisation dawned on him. It was him she had longed for. Him who had left her the lonely wanderer, a fallen angel walking the slow path. They would meet again, only next time, would be the first time, and she would not know him. Pain not born of physical injury ached inside. She would not love him as she did now.